Chiaroscuro
by Duilin
Summary: A sort of sick fascination with her radiance, in stark contrast with the dark shadows surrounding him, brings him closer to her. But bordering on the insane, he only brings more pain to himself to ignore the large, gaping hole in his sanity. The year is TA 97. Elrond is non compos mentis. \main genres listed inside/
1. 1

**Yes, I am a very horrible person, putting off everything else for this. _This._** Welcome to the butchering of Tolkien's characters by my hands. Er, fingers. Disturbing concepts. Lunatics (Elrond). And to top it all off, trauma. It's particularly depressing, but since my senses are considerably dulled, I can't tell my writing from depressing and horrible. **It might be both.**

_Warning!: This story does not have a happy ending._

So **'good'** news. It's just like my depressing short stories. Needless to say, it's most likely uncanonical. And doesn't fit in with the Tolkien-verse. So let's call it A/U.

**...I would say enjoy, but I'm not sure that's possible with this one.**

**Disclaimer (forgot to put it the first time, sorry): **I do not own anything recognizable as a part of Tolkien's brilliant masterpiece. :)

* * *

_Chiaroscuro - __(1)_

_'If you are going through hell, keep going.' –Sir Winston Churchill_

_main genres: insanity/drama/angst/tragedy (and some romance - if it can be considered that)_

* * *

_Drowning._

Or was he dreaming?

This horrible, gut-wrenching feeling.

_Drowning, drowning, drowning._

He could feel his fingers bathing in the blood of his enemies, his loved ones, his _own_ red—and all he could see was the darkness. The darkness, creeping upon them all like a cloud of toxin, rimmed red and bursting from the belly as it threatened to rain.

The face of a monster had appeared before him, and he had stepped back, expecting solid ground in a land of shadow. Instead, he sunk. He sunk into the ground, and the monster stared down at him, a malicious twist of the mouth appearing on his face.

It was his face.

He was quite sure he was drowning now, because there could be no other explanation to the walls of water coming up around him, enveloping him gently.

No dream could replicate such agony, the feeling of his diaphragm locking, precious air escaping his lips in a soft gasp—and he was even surer that he was sinking into a murky abyss with nothing to hold onto but the slimy particles of sand slipping through his blood-stained fingers. He didn't know what was beyond the abyss, what was inside, and he didn't want to find out, but he saw nothing to grip onto because he could see _nothing_ at all, and everything was happening so slowly and he was dying so quickly…

The blood was still on his fingers, and he tried to examine them, bringing them up to his face and narrowing his eyes.

_Why were they still stained with blood?_

War was like drowning. The waters started to spin until red slowly crept along the dark blue, mingling and swallowing.

_Swallowing…_

Sauron's mouth.

_Red…_

_"Lord Elrond, how did he die?"_

_Hurrying along an enclosed hallway, hoping to avoid the eyes of anyone who would see him, and then…caught. A stiff reply. "Honourably."_

_How did he die?_

_In red._

Elrond was faintly aware of a suffocating grasp on his wrist, pulling him, dragging him. And then, the sound of water relinquishing him from its hold. He had really been drowning. His mind reacted frantically, but his body did nothing, allowing itself to be dragged.

"You idiot," a voice hissed.

His knees hit something hard, wooden, and he collapsed onto the floor, shuddering and coughing. He blinked the waters out of his eyes as someone stood next to him, motionless. The robes the Elf wore were pristine white, hemmed with gold. Elrond closed his eyes, immediately recognizing the person beside him.

When he stopped coughing, he was dragged upwards into a standing position by the arm, and a towel was placed in his hands.

"Dry yourself," Glorfindel ordered coldly, crossing his arms over his chest. His expression was furious.

Elrond looked at Glorfindel coolly, wiping the water from his face and tying it around his waist. "Why did you come? There was no reason to—"

An almost incredulous, but even more so irate, expression appeared on Glorfindel's face as he took Elrond by the arm again and led him out of the baths. Next time, he would have someone supervise Elrond, be it Erestor or another councilor. Everyone they passed in the stone-tiled walkway had a right mind to make room for the awkward duo, as it hadn't been the first time a similar situation presented itself. Glorfindel looked livid. Elrond, on the other hand, looked calm and collected, with a wry countenance.

"Are you taking me to see Gil-galad?" Elrond inquired composedly.

Glorfindel did not dignify that query with an answer. Whenever Elrond asked this question, he knew never to respond to it specifically. Instead, he said patiently, "I am taking you to a healer."

Elrond laughed, almost delightedly as if someone had left a gift on his desk for him to open. "Glor, I am a healer. Why would you need to take me to one when I can heal myself?"

"Not just any healer," Glorfindel replied. "Mithrandir. I am taking you to see Mithrandir."

"You are taking me to see Mithrandir," Elrond reiterated pleasantly, and Glorfindel could feel Elrond tensing. He stopped and pulled his wrist sharply from Glorfindel's grasp. "I have no reason to see him. And so, I will not go to him."

He was making this difficult for Glorfindel. "And if I accompany you?"

"Why," Elrond said mildly, "that would only make it worse. I require no company."

Clad in only a towel, Elrond numbly gathered all of his dignity and moved around Glorfindel, treading down the hallway. Glorfindel simply stood there, the hand that had pulled Elrond along now resting on the weathered hilt of his sword. He gazed after Elrond quietly, and the passersby in the vestibule quickly glanced away, continuing on with whatever mindless thing they had been occupied with earlier. Glorfindel allowed himself another moment to watch Elrond descend the stairs into the entrance hall before he went the opposite way, a sigh on his lips.

Elrond continued down the hall wordlessly, his lips pressed tight together as he ignored the world around him. Many people cast him curious glances as he walked past them, some Hobbits, some Dwarves, some Men, and Elves. He slicked back the hair from his forehead calmly, arriving at his study without disturbance. He stood there for a while, gazing blankly at the door. Placing his palm against the wood, Elrond leaned against it, inclining his ear towards it, as if there were something within to eavesdrop on.

Rustling was heard behind the door. Elrond opened it slowly, and when he caught sight of a dark sapphire robe, a wry smile appeared on his face.

"Erestor," he greeted casually, ignoring the astonished look Erestor gave him. "What brings you to my study?"

"What brings _you, _half-naked and attired in a bath sheet, to your study?" Erestor replied. "I am come to deliver a letter of particular importance—or so the messenger claims—to you. It has the seal of the Lady on it."

"The Lady?" Elrond inclined his head to the side and took the letter Erestor extended to him. He recognized the seal and made a face. "What does she want now?" he asked, annoyed.

"You would find out if you open the letter," Erestor replied with a smirk. "I must take my leave to assist the mortal woman whose presence you requested yesterday."

Elrond glanced to Erestor. "Adelurui?" His lips pulled into a displeased frown. "What troubles ail her?"

"She wishes to leave Imladris."

Abruptly, Elrond threw the letter onto the disordered desk and clutched his hand. "Why? Why would she…" His eyes unfocused. "Why would she want to leave? There is nothing beyond the borders of Imladris for her, short of death!"

"Have you grown attached to this woman as well?" Erestor asked tolerantly. "Or is it because she will die young that you seem to prefer her over the company of an Elf-lady?"

The implication of an Elf-lady nearly suffocated Elrond, and he frantically retrieved the letter from the desk and tearing open the seal, unfolding the creased paper. His eyes searched the paper for some sort of confirmation that this was some sort of a joke, albeit unamusing and stodgy. "She is coming. She and her husband are coming to Imladris. That infuriating woman."

"And her daughter," the counselor added. "The messenger arrived and said they would be here by approximately tomorrow.

"Daughter," Elrond repeated flatly, placing the useless letter back on the desk. He went over to the large cabinet doors and took a robe from the hanger, draping it around his shoulders. He pulled breeches on as well before he turned back to face Erestor. His eyes wavered towards the letter again. "She and Celeborn have a daughter."

Shifting slightly, Erestor stated her name. Elrond must have misheard.

"C…Celebrindal?"

"No, Elrond, Celebrían. _Celebrían_."

"_Your grandmother's epessë was Celebrindal. She had a habit of walking around barefoot—quite a bit like your brother, Elros. She was extremely swift on foot," Eärendil said softly, placing his hand on Elrond's forehead. His other hand tickled Elros' feet. "When you two grow up, I know you will be fast runners…" A gentle frown appeared on his face. "You will need to run."_

"Run," Elrond whispered softly.

"Pardon?"

Elrond shook his head. "Nothing. It is nothing." He straightened his back and stood still for a while, staring vacantly at the wall opposite him. Then, he finally smiled and turned to Erestor. "It is never anything. I am sorry for keeping you here."

Feeling Erestor's worried and odd glance, Elrond dismissed him quietly and sat down at his desk. He positioned himself ramrod straight, as if holding a serious audience with someone before him. His lips parted, and he exhaled quietly, bowing his head down and his gaze flickering over to the letter again. '_Coming to visit you' _and _'delighted to see you again'_ were inexistent in the letter. Instead, it was cold formality put to paper that Galadriel addressed him with. _'We will be coming here to hold business with you.' _How to say it? Their relationship was rocky, and he could never tell what she was thinking, though she could possibly see right into his mind.

"Mithrandir, you can come out now," he finally said, after growing weary of the silence.

A small laugh, rough and gravelly, came from behind Elrond, right at the window. "Ah, I can never seem to mask my presence when next to you."

"No, you mask it well; however, there is always a way to tell," Elrond replied. "But what are you doing in my study?"

"Is a visit from an old friend so uncalled-for?"

Elrond let out some sort of a loose laugh, sounding almost choked. "Am I still qualified to be a friend? You have seen my behavior. I am hardly bound to this world by a thread."

"Qualified—immensely so," Gandalf answered, a smile twinkling in his eyes. "You are bound by your soul."

Turning around, Elrond faced Gandalf fully, a dark fire burning in his eyes. "A thread," he repeated. "My soul is but a thread compared to the fabric binding Arda together. If my thread were to be severed, I doubt it would make a momentous variance. Unless…" His grey eyes only seemed to darken, if that were possible for them to dim any further. "Unless I bear _that_. Is my existence only imperative because of _that_? Does such a thing weigh as much value as a Silmaril that I must survive to hold it?"

"Elrond, you are not yourself."

"I'm never myself."

Gandalf's expression faded to blank, the smile lost within. "Who are you then?"

"_What._ _What_ am I," Elrond said flatly. "I don't know what I am. Confused? Sick? Twisted? Is Elrond even here, in this study? You know who I am. Am I Elrond?" He stood, pushing aside his chair roughly. "Who am I, Mithrandir?"

"Until you find out yourself, I'm afraid we will never know." The look in his eyes…condolatory.

_Condolatory._

"Yes, yes, let us all wallow in bewilderment," Elrond muttered. He looked up, and his tone was more amiable now. "What brings you here, Mithrandir?"

"Glorfindel requested that I see you, since you would not see me," the wizard explained. Elrond couldn't quite determine the tone in his voice.

"There's nothing wrong with me," he said softly. "It's just only sometimes that I… Just sometimes," he finished lamely.

"Aren't you worried about yourself, Elrond?"

"Seldom. What is there to be worried about?" Nervousness crept into Elrond's voice. Before Gandalf could answer, he continued, responding to his own question, "_Everything_. Did you know about this, Mithrandir? Did you know?" He waved the letter in his hand around, allowing Gandalf to see it clearly. "Did you ask her to come?"

"She comes for other reasons," Gandalf replied obscurely. "But you may get to know her daughter."

With an ill-disguised contemptuous snort, Elrond turned his head to the side. "Taking into consideration that she may have knowledge of my widespread reputation with women, I honestly disbelieve the possibility. If she chooses to associate with me, it may end in doom."

Gandalf chuckled. "Why, you remind me of Námo. _It always ends in doom_. Perhaps, if you do not touch her hands, you will not have to witness it."

"Four women in seventy years, all dead. Adelurui is the fifth," Elrond said instead.

"I do not think she will stay."

"Oh, so you heard? Erestor informed me that she wished to depart from Imladris. But if she does not stay, she will depart from Arda."

"You young fool," Gandalf said softly. "Are you still trying to deceive yourself into thinking that what you felt towards them was really love? If it were actually 'love,' you would have long bound yourself to only one of them."

"It's not love; I never tried to deceive myself into thinking it was. Just care. Compassion. That alone may break a person. She will die with care; I will live with nothing."

Sighing, Gandalf took a seat before Elrond. "A rather noble action of yours. However, do you really think you are helping anyone by prolonging their death?"

Elrond's gaze was hard. "They must live until their lives are truly over. I, who am cursed to live, must live until my life is truly over. And maybe—maybe it will never end. But am I simply supposed to stand there and watch someone die when I have the means to decelerate the process? If it were someone you cared about, Mithrandir, what would you do?"

"You are not helping them, Elrond," Gandalf repeated firmly. "If you are to associate yourself closely, to bring them to see a more personal side of you, then expect the pain coupled from both sides because of one's death. Don't you think those women, those that are dead, might have been pained to leave you? Upset because they thought you truly loved them and did not wish to leave you? Stop trying to delude yourself." His eyes glinted with stone. "It is not just about Elros, is it? It is not because they are of the race of Man?"

"No."

"You are masochistic."

A sardonic, deprecating smile appeared on Elrond's lips. "That may be so. But how do you know I am not insane?"

"I do not," Gandalf responded, and the room was silent.


	2. 2

**Tada!** **Chapter two.**

Er, happy reading.

* * *

_Chiaroscuro - (2)_

_"Every man dies. Not every man really lives."—William Wallace_

_main genres: insanity/drama/angst/tragedy _

* * *

Elrond snorted as he regarded Glorfindel's retelling of exactly how Men thought of him.

Rumors flew rapidly around settlements of the humans, and this particular rumor dealt with Elrond's tendency to alter the fate of women he had relationships with. However, the rumor's accusation was more or less the exact antithesis of the truth, even if it was true the women he courted died early—though Elrond supposed rumors nearly held no regard for truth. Almost like a lie. But one could easily see through a lie if he looked hard enough, and it was all too simple for Elrond to see the lies, looking hard or not.

Two voices. The same tone.

'_I will come back for you. Stay here.'_

'_Don't worry; everything will be fine.'_

'_Yes, he is coming back.'_

'_You're safe here.'_

'_I will not hurt you.'_

'_I took you in, I cared for your wounds, and I never placed a blade at your throat. You can trust me.'_

He couldn't quite distinguish who said which until his mind slowly coordinated each lie with its memory. _A soft face, tenderly regarding his own as long, calloused fingers brushed aside the hair covering his eyes. It was him, __always him__, gentle and deceptive as ever. Elrond remembered that face. The face, bloodstained, weary, tired, resigned, and finally horrified. _

"_We cannot kill children!"_

It would have been easier.

"Do they really think that I am the cause of their early deaths?" Elrond asked, a soft smile on his face as Glorfindel rolled his eyes.

"You sound almost proud of the rumor, Elrond. Did you not hear them speak of you? '_He chooses a woman at the prime of her age, and the unfortunate lady is killed or dead within ten years. That half-Elf half-Man brings misfortune to all of the young mortal women in Imladris.' _If I am not mistaken, this is nothing short of a straight affront."

Almost appearing entertained, Elrond sat up in his pavilion chair, lacing his fingers together. "And nothing short of self-censure could possibly make me feel affronted. I feel rather wonderful today—not even rumors may touch me." He looked questioning now. "Could it possibly be that you yourself are insulted in my place, Glorfindel? I am honored, though surprised and curious."

Glorfindel denied Elrond's suspicion. "I am nothing of the sort. What bothers me is that it managed to reach _my_ notice, though Elves should not have partaken in spreading such slander."

"It's not so much slander as it is with a grain of the truth," Elrond answered, closing his eyes. "But they are faultless here. My activities are the point of interest for many people here." His expression was almost serene. For that one small moment, Glorfindel could almost believe that Elrond's full stability was returned. He could almost believe that Elrond was sane. And then Elrond opened his eyes, convincing Glorfindel of the contrary. Elrond was not perfectly sane.

"You purposely choose women like _them_. Why? Why do you insist on having all of these women at your feet?"

"You sound almost like Gandalf," Elrond replied. "Yes, I purposely choose women like _them_, as you put it. Foresight comes into play here. It's very convenient, if I am seeking someone who dies young. But my reasons are peculiar. They would only sound reasonable to _me_. For example, if you are one who has lost everything and will continue to lose everything…what would you do? Sit there numbly and take the pain?" His mouth twisted into a smile. "It distracts me."

"That is sick."

"Well, I never claimed to be perfectly sane, did I?" he retorted good-naturedly.

Glorfindel sighed and shook his head, his tone connoting what seemed to be slightly resigned amusement. Or just resignation. "No, and if you did, I would tie you up in the city square in the strings of a corset and proclaim you are lying."

Elrond laughed lightly. "I anticipate no less, actually. To purge me of…my atrocities…you would go to the end of the world."

"Atrocities, no. I would not say they are atrocities. But he asked me to, as I only pledged allegiance to you."

"_He._"

"Yes."

"Well, _he_ is gone, and his passing landed us on the cusp of the Third Age." Elrond's tone seemed so toneless, emotionless, that it was as if it were some orc report read aloud. Blank. Unfeeling. The friendly voice from earlier vanished into mist.

Glorfindel scrutinized Elrond's expression with doubt. "You don't really believe that."

"Believe what?"

"You don't really believe that you don't feel anything for his death."

"Quite frankly, I feel _everything_, from the wearing, eroding, and dulling ache in the back of my throat to the sharp twist of the knife in my abdomen." Elrond smiled again. "And besides, what does it matter what I feel and don't feel? All that is important is that I _feel_ it. Because feeling is immensely important to the hröa and the fëa. It's the way they communicate with each other. But, Glor, don't you wish that you felt no pain?" Glorfindel's expression was neutral—no; _blank_, as if he were trying hard not to respond. "If there was no pain, no communication between the body and the spirit, one could go on forever and ever, fighting, living, staring blankly at walls. Without pain, I could do anything I wanted to. Without pain, _I could kill mercilessly, and my spirit would not be consumed by writhing guilt. _Unfortunately, I feel pain."

"And do you think, truly, that you could live without pain? Do you want to kill mercilessly and avoid the consequences on your conscience?" Glorfindel asked warily.

"Why, no, to both. No one can live without pain, and undoubtedly no one can live with wrenching culpability. Therefore this theory of mine is incomplete. We could be bearing in mind the loosely defined term of 'pain', as there are different ways to fall apart from the inside—or outside, if you consider bruises, lacerations, and amputation. What is pain? Is it physical? Psychological? There is a broad range of definitions for _pain_. Certainly, what pain I interpret and what pain you interpret may be different. Or, with luck, be it good or bad, we feel the same pain. But who is to say that psychological pain can constantly be healed? That, I think, is the difference between the two. Communication between the fëa and hröa is a rather peculiar thing. Pain registers in our bodies, and our spirits tell us to stop. _Stop_. Stop fighting, stop hurting—do whatever it takes to feel better, to feel right again. _Whatever it takes_." Elrond glanced absentmindedly to the flowers blossoming in his garden. "So what does it take for me…to feel right? I feel wrong. Am wrong."

Glorfindel placed his hand gently atop Elrond's. His meaningful glance, more than words could ever convey, seemed to say, ironically, '_You don't have to do this to yourself. You __shouldn't__ do this to yourself.'_

"I can't seem to do anything else," the clogged reply came, and Elrond pulled his hand from Glorfindel's sharply. His strangled tone indicated an abrupt change in the conversation's topic. "The party from Lothlorien should arrive soon," he said quietly, bowing his head. "I hear their footsteps."

"Sharp as ever," Glorfindel noted, without a smile on his face.

Elrond nodded to him, and they both stood as three Elves stepped into the scene, bowing respectfully as Galadriel, Celeborn, and a young Elf-lady came up to them. Immediately, it was as if a match was struck and tension was lit. Elrond and Galadriel locked gazes, staring at each other wordlessly as Glorfindel greeted Celeborn and her daughter. Quietly, Elrond and Glorfindel stepped aside, and the three Elves took their seats in the pavilion. Shyly, the young Elf—Celebrían, wasn't it? her name sent apprehensive tingles up Elrond's spine—took Elrond's hand and consented to being led to her seat. His gaze didn't leave her for a while, shocked at her silver hair. Though it was signature of being Lord Celeborn's daughter, her soft expression reminded him of the people at Sirion.

_Running along a sandy path, the wind gently blowing back his hair… He ran into the arms of a silver-haired Elf. Just someone. Not anyone whose name he remembered, but a soft face, tender, caring, loving. He only remembered the face._

"_Elrond, what are you doing out here? It's extremely windy today."_

"_Catching up to Elros," he replied, huffing slightly._

Tersely, Galadriel addressed Elrond. "We come to ask you if we may stay in Rivendell."

"Lothlórien?" Elrond inquired. He imagined the toll this must have had on Galadriel's pride and wanted to smirk at it.

"Amroth," she replied, and that was answer enough.

"Well, you are very welcome to stay," he finally said, immensely enjoying the almost annoyed look behind her calm expression. "Would you prefer separate rooms or to rest in one altogether? If it is the latter, I can have it arranged that you are led to Gil-galad's—" his tone changed to a calmer, more mature tenor, and Galadriel's eyes narrowed slightly at the near-imperceptible frenzy in his voice, "—chambers. Since he is not here and will not be returning…" Elrond trailed off, his expression contorting into something akin to confusion. He turned to Glorfindel with a perplexed, dulled gaze, inclining his head to the side. Glorfindel shook his head. Elrond did not resume finishing his sentence. Instead, he continued on as if he hadn't lost track of his thought. "I hope your stay here is satisfactory."

Galadriel seemed almost…chary of Elrond. She nodded quietly, and another glance passed through them. Celebrían watched carefully, almost fascinated by the interaction between her mother and Elrond. He stood quietly and bowed.

"I must take my leave of your company for now. I will send for someone to guide you to…" His eyes widened, and his voice locked in his throat. _What was he saying? _He turned around quickly to leave, when Galadriel's voice interrupted the chaotic turmoil in his mind.

"You have changed, Elrond, ever since we lost him."

"I have," Elrond answered blandly. Their eye contact broke before he finished his sentence, ending their exchanged thoughts, leaving the pavilion. _But_ _he __died__. You say it as if we could bring him back. He is not __lost__, he is __dead__._

Silently, Glorfindel followed him.

* * *

The room was silent. It seemed that Elrond's study was always silent. Glorfindel stood quietly by the desk, facing the window. The light filtering through the glass lit his eyes up even further. Elrond sat in the old chair, closing his eyes and breathing quietly. He pinched the bridge of his nose and counted to twenty.

"I have changed," he muttered. "_I _have changed?"

"Why sound so incredulous?"

"Ah, you're teasing me." Elrond turned in his chair to look at Glorfindel, who simply offered him a soft smile. He smiled back almost helplessly, as if he couldn't do anything else but smile until his lips split and his mouth splintered. "At least you are willing to… No one else here will look me in the eye besides _her_ and her husband. Am I really so unbalanced, Glorfindel? Do I frighten them? Do I frighten _you?_"

"Despite what you think, I am incapable of being frightened of you. Do you wish for me to be?"

"No, no," Elrond said all too quickly, shoulders slumping slightly. He rolled the sleeves of his robes up to his elbows and rested his chin in the palm of his hand. "Think of me as you've always thought of me." He raised his head and looked at Glorfindel, and almost unconsciously, he shifted, staring back. "What do you think of me?"

Glorfindel sighed. "Are you playing some sort of game with me, Elrond?"

"A game?" Elrond repeated. "What sort of a game?"

Ignoring Elrond's words, Glorfindel continued. "Is this how you cope? How you try to ignore the pain? As you put it, you can feel everything, from the '_wearing, eroding, and dulling ache in the back of your throat to the sharp twist of the knife in your abdomen.' _It _distracts you_. Everything distracts you. Don't think I haven't noticed the way you get off track, losing your train of thought. You get confused easily whenever someone mentions him. Whenever you yourself mention him. Is it simply because you are incapable with living in pain or incapable of living without it?"

How many times had this room been silent, words leaving their impact and rendering everyone else mute? _How many_ _times_? Elrond asked himself. He inaudibly stood. His entire life consisted of _sitting, standing, staring, separating. _He couldn't remember the last time he lied down, feeling safe, and closing his eyes. He couldn't remember the last time someone held him and whispered it would be all right and sincerely _meant it_. He wanted to forget.

"To them," he said softly. "To them _all, _to him, to her, to _them,_ _that_ _jewel_ was always first. Always came first. Before children, before adults, before lives. My existence and his existence and _their_ existence were tied to that jewel. Like strands—" Recalling speaking to Gandalf about strands, Elrond laughed to himself darkly, "—in a tapestry, all weaved around a brilliant, gleaming orb of _light_. _Light! _If the world had gone dark, it seems all of our lives would be insignificant. I used to live with them, though I doubt you don't already know. They never spoke to me of those blasted things. They convinced me that we were more important, that Elros and I came first to them _then_. 'I took you in, I cared for your wounds, and I never placed a blade at your throat. You can trust me. I won't leave you.' And what do I say in return to that? What do I say in return to a promise that was supposed to be kept? Yes, Father, I trust you? I believe that you won't leave me? And what will I say—_what did I say—_when he finally did? When he—_they_—said to us, '_I will come back for you; stay here.' _Please come back. Almost tantamount pleading to someone who has died; please, come back. Open your eyes. Breathe. Except _a million times worse._" Elrond let out a frustrated cry. "Would that I have a million blades ripping through my throat! I would have healed by then, Glorfindel! I would have healed by then!"

"You would have been dead."

"Healed," Elrond answered adamantly, dully. "I would have long been _healed_."

"Death is not the road to salvation," Glorfindel told him flatly. "Stop trying to deceive yourself."

"Not so, Glorfindel, not so!" he exclaimed, his voice transcending an octave of hysteria. "For me, it is escape. I wish everything, every_one_ would not be so colorful, garish, bright! I see everything in color! From the dewy morning grass rooted in the ground to the crimson, glinting blood that flowed from _his wounds_. I much rather prefer the grey of the Halls of Waiting than the color of life flowing through our veins. It always comes back to light. _Light, light, light_. Without light, without _life_, there is no color but grey."

Abruptly, Elrond grasped the hilt of Glorfindel's sword and pulled it from the scabbard hanging at his side.

"You have gone mad."

"Finally!" Elrond laughed. But a hint of faint desperation, a hint of pleading, rang through his tone, as a small clatter of stone setting off a series of echoes in a well. "Finally, someone says it. I have gone _mad_. Kill me. _Kill me!_"

The sword clattered to the ground as Glorfindel pushed it aside and held Elrond's wrist firmly in his fingers.

_"Save me,"_ he mumbled.

Quietly, Glorfindel relinquished his hold on Elrond. "I am not the Kinslayer you expect me to be," he murmured, the ice in his blue eyes sharper than ever. "I cannot replicate your past experiences. If your 'father' held you at sword-point, even then…I am nothing like them."

A faintly disturbed expression appeared in Elrond's face. "They never…" He stopped short and blinked. "…Of course. My apologies. I should not have expected it of you." He stepped away from Glorfindel, almost shocked, backing away, and avoided looking at the sword. His expression was frantic, as if he were a child, lost in a sea of unfamiliar faces. A lonely crowd, pressing him one step backwards, _over and over again_, until the heel of his foot reached the putrefying, deteriorating brink of the promontory—of reason.

When Elrond was out of sight, Glorfindel exhaled sharply and knelt down to collect his sword. His legs, however, failed him, and he sunk to the ground on both knees, quickly grasping the side of Elrond's desk to right the balance that returned to him. That gaze, from so long ago. _Frightened, horrified, angry. Of himself._ Seeming almost like Maeglin.

No, Elrond was not Maeglin.

* * *

Elrond became uncomfortably aware of the fact that the rumors were in fact the topic of the week as soon as he stepped into the hallway. He had not expected to see Adelurui, but as soon as he did, he felt a sort of bitter taste in his mouth and quietly walked away, a scowl on his face. Everyone he passed by quickly turned away, and it reminded him too much of yesterday. Unaware of a young Elf-woman's gaze on him, he continued down the hallway to the public baths, and her eyes flickered to the young human woman standing in the hall, shocked.

Concerned, Celebrían looked back to Elrond, but he had already vanished from her sight.

She stepped back into the shadows.


	3. 3

**Sorry, a fair amount of writer's block is the pitiful excuse I have. But this story is important to me. Thanks for reading, by the way. If you haven't seen my profile, I'll be gone for almost three weeks. **I take back chapter two being hardest to write—it's this one that takes the cheese. *scratches head and looks at chapter with a sigh* Fanfiction has a notorious reputation for DELETING COMMAS AND LETTERS. **All Sindarin names come from the Sindarin Name Randomizer. I was too lazy to actually hand-pick the words out this time, but usually I take a lot of care in selecting names for my characters, even if they are minor.**

**Happy reading.**

**(insert disclaimer)**

* * *

_Chiaroscuro - (3)_

_'Life is full of misery, loneliness, and suffering – and it's all over much too soon.'_ _–Woody Allen_

_main genres: insanity/drama/angst/tragedy _

* * *

The days rapidly flew by, and Imladris almost seemed a peaceful haven to Celebrían. The birds sang to her in the mornings, rousing from her sleep gently and friendlily, the sun shined enticingly as if pleading for her to rise from the bed and look at it, and the wind breezed in through the windows, touching her face gently as if to say, _'Get up, get up…!_'

It was pure accident that they would meet by the trees. Celebrían undecidedly meandered to the gardens after waking from a light slumber, allowing her feet to guide her where they pleased. By chance, as she padded slowly, barefoot, into the stone-tiled orchard, marveling at the age and height of the noble trees around her, she caught sight of a dark-haired Elf standing at the largest tree of them all, shoulders squared compulsorily, but head bowed and face hidden by strands of dark hair covering his eyes. Unbidden, the memory of him, coldly dismissive towards the woman, rose to the forefront of her thoughts, and she shook her head, sighing, trying to free her mind from that particular recollection.

At the sound of her sigh, he turned around, and his grey eyes widened at the sight of her.

"Morning, Lady Celebrían," he greeted, surprised. He glanced down, almost guardedly, and saw that she wore no shoes. "Barefooted?" he asked quietly.

"Ah, yes," she replied, flushing slightly and glancing down at her feet. The soil beneath them was soft and pliant, like a soft ivory bed cover. But perhaps she should have worn shoes… Would it make her seem more ladylike? She glanced back up and found Elrond's eyes twinkling enigmatically. "I was… I…"

Tongue-tied, she gave up on continuing that sentence.

"It is very relaxing to walk around barefoot," he finally said after looking back at the large tree, saving her from having to come up with a proper response. A soft, almost painfully nostalgic expression appeared on his face. "May I ask what you are doing out here at such an early hour?" he asked, without turning back to her.

"I…found it rather dull, sitting in my rooms," Celebrían replied slowly, cautiously choosing her words. If Elrond yet again 'lost his mind,' as her father put it though she had yet to see it happen, it could not possibly end well. "And I was feeling rather inquisitive today."

He turned back to her with a small smile and held his hand out for her to take. "Then…would you like to explore Imladris?" Seeing her uncomprehending look, he particularized, "I would be delighted to guide you around."

Celebrían did not voice her thoughts aloud at first. Undoubtedly, she felt uncomfortable walking around unfamiliar territory with _Elrond_, who had seemed so tense in her mother's presence before—not to mention that fact that Celeborn had told her beforehand that Elrond was considered 'unstable,' his reputation with women 'legendarily infamous and blown out of proportion,' and prone to 'anxiety attacks.' Foreign to Elrond's _actual_ anxiety attacks, which only seemed to others that knew him well—such as, say, Glorfindel or Erestor—as transitory stints of explosive melancholia, she decided against the foreboding feeling in her stomach telling her to be wary of Elrond and took his hand, smiling in return.

"I would love to."

* * *

The only place he had to time to show her was the marketplace. It was the busiest section of Imladris, filled with a diversity of businesses, stalls, and people. As soon as Elrond stepped foot into the large square, one person recognized him at once and stepped up to greet him…and surprised, greeted Celebrían as well. Many people heard of Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel's arrival in Imladris, but to find that their _daughter_ was walking around the streets unchaperoned with _Elrond_ was unspeakable and pointblank-unacceptable. It was quite hard to believe that Elrond had no ulterior motives, but it appeared that he genuinely didn't, by the way he regarded Celebrían as he would regard everyone around him.

_He held her hand_.

And to the surprise of everyone who paid heed to his entry into the emporium…

…_he didn't seem to be distracted._

"Good morning, Elrond," the Elf greeted him. "And good morning to you as well, fair lady."

Celebrían didn't even look shy; Elrond was faintly impressed.

"How has the trade progressed?" Elrond asked. Though he disliked discussing business terms, especially in front of personal company, it was out of habit and simply because he found himself inarticulate with Celebrían.

"Not well. Bad blood runs through generations, it seems. Elves and Dwarves don't mix."

"Still unwilling?"

The Elf snorted. "Understatement of the century. One of them sent Bragollaeg off with a whole bucket load Dwarvish curses and raised weapons. If I had been there…" He trailed off with a good-natured smile. "Well, I should get back to work and let you continue you on your 'tour…'" He gave Elrond a sort of knowing look and went back to his stall, picking up on his earlier preoccupation.

Elrond shook his head with a slight laugh. He turned to Celebrían with a soft smile. "That was Taladir. Sometimes, he likes to imagine that he's there at the forefront of danger, battling dangerous adversaries with our warriors. Glorfindel says he'll make the ranks if he can get those hands of his calloused to the point that holding a sword by its hilt doesn't 'hurt', or so Taladir says."

"Oh?" Celebrían said playfully. "Does it hurt to hold the hilt of a sword in _your_ hand, Lord Elrond?"

He nodded seriously, but his eyes conveyed quite the contrary. "Very. My hands are not hands meant for blades." He held his hand out before Celebrían and guided her fingertips gently to touch his palms. Quietly, he asked her, "Do they feel calloused to you?"

"Slightly," she affirmed. "But I suppose that is because you had to take up a sword at least once in your life." She traced the lines on his hand gently. "You are a healer."

"Perceptive," he complimented her.

"Ah, no, I only know because your name is quite widespread. You're considerably renowned in Middle-earth."

"I suppose you mean infamous. I sincerely doubt that Lothlorien hasn't heard of my reputation with women."

"But you still have helped many people," Celebrían replied, insistent to alleviate the sudden grave countenance Elrond took on.

She grasped his hand tightly and gave him what seemed to her as a reassuring squeeze, but Elrond regarded her slowly and silently, retracting his lower lip slightly in thought. Then his gaze slipped past her. He regretted it now. He regretted it _greatly_. The light in his eyes was unfocused, and Celebrían realized that he was now staring past her head—though it was quite easy, as Celebrían was rather short in comparison to Elrond. However, his eyes focused once again, and she turned around, curious.

"Lady Galadriel," Elrond said, sounding almost subdued. "Hail."

"Lord Elrond."

With a polite nod, Elrond excused himself from Celebrían and Galadriel's presence without any pretense of reluctance. His pace was hurried as he went back in the direction he and Celebrían had come from, his head bowed and distracted. Galadriel turned to Celebrían, her blank gaze revealing nothing.

"You went around Imladris with Lord Elrond." _A simple statement that made Celebrían feel as if she had done something wrong._ Why did her mother always have this influence over everyone?

Celebrían confirmed this. "His company is very pleasant."

"His company is equivalent to that of a snake's toothless smile."

"Mother!" Celebrían protested, her voice hushed as she pulled Galadriel along the cobblestone road. "Lord Elrond seems to me a much agreeable person."

Galadriel gave no indication that she heard the defensive tone in Celebrían's voice. She didn't seem to be willing to spare her daughter's feelings or mindset either. "Celebrían, do you know the full extent of his reputation with women? Would you still be willing to face him if you knew why he would engage in such activities as seeking women who die young?" She didn't take to the trouble of keeping her voice low.

By the look on Celebrían's face, Galadriel knew her daughter had misjudged the situation…perhaps by far.

"What… What sort of reason…?"

* * *

"Oh, it's good to see you can find your way back to your study," Erestor noted wryly as Elrond came into the room, tight-lipped. "Now, come here. At times like these, we need your presence, and this is a very important matter."

"For what?" Elrond asked warily. "If it is _that_…"

Glorfindel crossed his arms over his broad chest, fixing Elrond with a firm gaze. Just from looking at his eyes, Elrond could tell that the 'Incident' from yesterday was still fresh in his mind.

"Exactly _that_," Glorfindel said mercilessly. "But why do you find it so repulsive?"

"Why should I not? Why should we all not?" he replied. "There is nothing good in those damn Rings. What truly repulses me is that mere _jewelry_ hold so much power over an entire race, be it willing possession or disinclined guardianship. Did Fëanor's grandson learn nothing from the fates of his uncles? The outcome of every single one of their lives seemed not to discourage him at all, but positively influence his decision to _forge more fashion accessories_. It's almost as if the eldest one's fiery—" He stopped mid-sentence, words catching in his throat. He attempted to try again, but found his words running dry. "After all, no one even knows if Maglor is still—" His tongue failed him, his speech halting, and he allowed himself a strangled cry ripping from behind his teeth as he looked sunken in despair. "I am reduced to such a wretched mess!"

"It's your body's defense mechanisms, perhaps," his golden-haired friend suggested, moving aside to get to the point. Sitting on Elrond's desk almost _innocuously_ was a wooden box, unassuming and simple, yet held in there was one of Elrond's greatest antagonists. "Wearing this won't make you a bloodthirsty villain, Elrond. It might sting slightly—and perhaps irritate your skin if you don't take to it, but otherwise…"

Elrond seemed to have more interest in discussing what Glorfindel had said before, however, and showed no signs of hearing what Glorfindel had said afterwards. "Defense mechanisms? Why would you come to the conclusion that my impaired speech defensive?"

"Quite obviously, you suffer trauma from everything that's happened to you, from the most positive influences to the most devastating stimuli," Erestor answered instead. He removed his glasses carefully, almost as if expecting for a physical blow and subsequently discarding his spectacles first so he might put them on later. "Have you spoken to Mithrandir lately?"

"I have. Not even he knows if I am insane or not."

"Surely you would know?"

"Do you think it of me?"

Erestor laughed humorlessly. "If you do not know, why would I?"

"Judge me."

"Judge you? Perhaps I will, if you put her on."

"_Her?_ You named the anathematized thing?"

"Vilya is a feminine name," Erestor said in his own defense, good-naturedly. "And though she can't speak back, she makes a fine companion for your skilled hand."

"Oh, so you're getting lascivious now?"

"Pardon me—I should have taken into consideration that you know nothing beyond holding a woman's hands."

The only two dark-haired Elves in the study stared at each other, both of their gazes hard and unyielding. Elrond pinched the bridge of his nose, inhaling sharply. Then, he informed Erestor and Glorfindel quite flatly, "I will not bear it."

"Well, it's nothing to be _borne_, per se. Just something you must wear."

"You're the ruler of a realm, Elrond. You're doing this for the sake of the people that depend upon you."

"I cannot believe it," Elrond grumbled. "You're using _that_ old trick, Glorfindel. The 'dependency' card. I was just fine being alone!" Somehow, the topic completely digressed. It wasn't about the ring anymore, or ruling a realm. His tone, from an almost childish huff, turned to a stony, resenting tenor. "It would have been _easier_ if I had been by myself—being associated with a person so _closely _only brings pain. From what I have been put through, what else can I think of love? What makes love? True heart-rending, anguishing pain. No one knows _love_ until they've lost it, until it retracts from their grasp and they reach out helplessly, fingertips brushing against it futilely, pressing their arm against the constraining bars of a glass cage that you cannot break—and why, that makes you think, '_Why didn't I recognize it earlier? Why didn't I appreciate it before I adulterated it?_' Because true love is_ deceiving_. You don't _know_ what it is. _I_ don't know what it is. I've never had it within my grasp! If they _ever_ loved me—!"

He stepped forward, and on instinct, Glorfindel and Erestor stepped from the desk, both cautious of Elrond's intentions. Glorfindel's hand almost flew to the hilt of his sword. Elrond caught the movement.

_Does it hurt to hold the hilt of a sword in your hand, Lord Elrond?_

_Yes._

"_Do you really think you know what it takes to wield a sword, Elrond?" __his__ voice asked gently. Elrond felt a warm hand at the small of his back, guiding him away from where the __other one__ trained, thrusting his left hand forward and truncating the 'training dummy' that faintly resembled a dark wraith. Its head rolled to the floor, and the shoddy makeshift crown fell from it, the three tin circles jarred and shaken from the rough landing, separating from the 'crown.'_

_Elrond heard __his__ voice, in the background, as he was steered away. "And that, Elros, is how you decapitate your enemy."_

"_What does it take, Maglor?"_

Elrond's hand enclosed around the latch of the box. "I'll wear the damn Ring—I'll wear it to my destruction!"

"_It takes an understanding of what you wield it for," Maglor replied, kneeling down so they were eye-to-eye. Elrond smiled hesitantly, unsure, and at such an ingenuous, __**trusting**__ face, how could __he__ not smile back? But Maglor did not. He maintained the soft frown and placed his hand on Elrond's forehead. "A sword is crafted for one reason. Despite what people say to justify sharpening a rod of metal, there is only reason. To kill." He was about to continue, but his expression contorted into that of a worried, faintly apologetic one. "I am sorry, Elrond… That was insensitive of me to…"_

"_No, no…it's fine, Father," Elrond mumbled. _

He lifted the lid, releasing it from his grasp, and it swung down onto the table. _Jewelry. It was always __jewelry,_ _prioritized before everything else._

"_Ah, you cut yourself on the blade…" Tenderly, Maglor lifted Elrond's hand up to the light, and Elrond shied away from the vibrant crimson liquid dripping down his fingers. "Here, press the cloth against the wound to stop the bleeding. Does it hurt?"_

_**Does**__ it hurt?_

_To kill._

Elrond felt pain—excruciating pain. The Ring constricted on his finger, and the coarse metal banding within dug into his skin.

"_Brother! You hurt yourself!"_

"_Oh…yes…" Elrond glanced down at his finger. "That… That's only because my hand slipped…and then I cut myself on the blade."_

_Elros laughed. "You aren't fit to hold a sword."_

_Elrond forced a smile. "Maybe I'm not. I think I'd prefer to be a healer…"_

"_That's all right; I'll protect you."_

"_Fine with me—when you get injured, just come back to me and I'll keep you alive."_

* * *

Face pale and wan, Elrond made his way into the armory, pushing aside suits of armor, shields, and hanging scabbards. His fingertips brushed the wooden table where the knives lay, and he stared at the ring for a while. The sapphire stone set within sickened him. He curled his fingers into a tight fist, shaking uncontrollably as he glared harshly at his hand. Dried blood caked the opposite sides of the band around his finger. If there was some way to remove it, to alleviate the suffocating feeling…

_He was drowning again._

The gleam of a dulled blade caught his eye. His eyes flickered around the room, searching for something sharper, but they all hung from the wall, waiting to be used for training, not amputating fingers. The blade almost seemed to smile stultifyingly at him, and he frantically tried to focus on his reflection. Pathetic.

"This… I can remove the Ring…" he mumbled, his lips twisting upwards into a vicious, malevolent smile.

Gripping the handle of the knife in his hand, he lowered it, shakily, to his dominant hand, glowering at the finger _that_ _thing_ sat on.

'_I never understood physical self-harm.'_

'…_Now I do.'_

Just as the blade touched his skin lightly, though not breaking through it, the door opened again, and of all people to walk in! Celebrían gracefully entered the room, holding the door open, speaking to someone softly. She looked over the room—and she caught sight of Elrond. Elrond stared at her, surprised, and her lips parted in horror. In a split second, she slammed the door shut, hurrying over to Elrond and seizing the knife from him. She looked up at him, slightly intimidated by their differences in height. He was much taller and stronger and could have easily taken the knife back from her, with the least amount of force.

"What were you thinking?" she asked, frightened and yet reproaching. "You said your hands are not hands made for blades!"

Elrond gazed at her, and his expression almost seemed confused. "Why, M—" he cut himself off, tilting his head to the side and placing his palm on his forehead. He breathed in, closing his eyes. Then he opened them, and Celebrían stepped back reflexively at his unfriendly look, an odd, cold feeling snaking up her spine. For once, Elrond didn't appear to be the rational, lucid Elf she thought he was. His earlier friendly demeanor in the market was gone.

With lips set in a thin line, Elrond moved past Celebrían and left the armory, without casting a glance at the guard waiting outside who was surprised by his presence. Celebrían remained inside, lips quivering and shocked.

"Lady Celebrían?" the guard asked tentatively, opening the door. "If you'd like, we could go visit somewhere else."

Celebrían's silver eyes went to the blade in her hand. Turning around and placing it on the table, she nodded and exited the armory as well.


	4. 4

**Greetings. If you were wondering about my long absence—or perhaps you just thought I was being lazy again—I'm here to clarify that I was gone for three weeks on a mind repose. :) I'd like to believe I made some excellent friends within the confines of my own imagination. But I have forgotten all of their names.**

**There may or may not have been a degeneration/regression of my writing skills. I haven't written much in three weeks, which is a lot of time, even for me. *laughs nervously***

**But I bring to you the fourth chapter of **_**Chiaroscuro.**_

* * *

_Chiaroscuro - (4)_

_"A question that sometimes drives me hazy: am I or are the otherscrazy?"—Albert Einstein_

_main genres: insanity/drama/angst/tragedy _

* * *

"Adelurui has left Imladris," Glorfindel informed Elrond as they sat at the table, breaking the silence as Elrond fidgeted listlessly in his chair.

Elrond looked up from where he sat, a faintly perturbed expression on his face, as if he had not expected the news. His eyes widened imperceptibly, searching Glorfindel's face for any suggestion of deceit. When he was certain, with a sinking feeling, that Glorfindel was not attempting to pull some sort of a trick over him, he drew in a breath unhappily and gazed vacuously at his gleaming silver plate again. The fingers of his left hand curled into the table cloth as he gripped a handful of it. Glorfindel was not the kind to tell falsehoods to draw an antiphon from Elrond, and Elrond should not have anticipated it of him. He looked back to Glorfindel and saw that the Elf was awaiting his reaction.

"That was a foolish decision," Elrond finally stated, his lips barely moving, posture stiff. "Her death would have been prolonged if she had remained." His voice was toneless, and his eyes were blank as he held Glorfindel's unfazed gaze. "A pity she did not remain."

The ring on his hand gleamed pellucidly in the large dining hall. People busily bustled about the floor, but Elrond and Glorfindel remained seated quietly, the former sitting at the head of the large table. Elrond's fingers remained restless, at one point tapping the table, or staying in place, twitching nervously. Elrond's eyes flickered back and forth from one side of the hall to the other. Then, catching Glorfindel's eye, he smiled uncertainly, and his hand reached for the knife, the tips of his fingers skimming across the silver handle.

Without warning, his eyes firmly fixed on Elrond, Glorfindel sent his fork flying towards the knife, and its tines trapped the knife in place, the points digging sharply into the wooden mahogany table. The table shook slightly, and the ringing of metal echoed down the hall until it faded.

"Not here," Glorfindel told him quietly.

Elrond's mouth twisted into a displeased frown, and he asked softly, "I cannot incise the finger withstanding the ring that sits upon the hand with which I wield the blade, and you have stayed my hand by binding the knife to the table. Do you really think I would cause a disturbance in front of all of these people? What do you take me for, Glor? I am not so irrational as to make a scene right here, right now."

"Do not put up fabricated pretenses of innocence and release the bitterness you have because you are being forced to bear the ring. Your hand twitches towards the knife, Elrond, but your throat is that which your fingers seek."

Gripping the handle tightly, Elrond's knuckles turned white, and the two stared at each other challengingly.

At this point, the party from Lothlorien entered, and Celebrían looked worriedly around the large hall, seeking the dark-haired Elf from yesterday, sitting at the head of the table, his face pale and gaunt. His right hand unmistakably was where Vilya was enthroned. Confused, Celebrían thought back to yesterday, when she saw Elrond in the armory, gripping a sharp blade and holding it to his…right hand… She quickly fought to maintain her composure when she felt her mother's gaze on her. She stumbled in on Elrond during so many inconvenient times!

Though she continued glance to Elrond, he never seemed to turn his head. From the distance increasing between them as the company moved to the other end of the table, he only appeared to be speaking calmly to Glorfindel, and in low, hushed tones. She could not hear them over the loud voices of everyone else in the hall, and she wished to gather the courage to apologize to him for yesterday. Her eyes nervously went to her mother, who stared at her almost as blankly and emotionlessly as Elrond had in the arsenal.

Reluctantly, she took a seat at the other end of the table. But as she accommodated herself to the spindled chair, Glorfindel gracefully slid out of his seat, and Elrond abruptly pushed his chair back into place as he brusquely swept out of the hall. Celebrían began to lower her gaze to the plate when he suddenly turned and caught her attention. She felt rooted to the spot, flinching inwardly as he looked away, the same scowl in his grey eyes. The ice in his gaze was so chilling that Celebrían could have been with her mother crossing the Helcaraxë, or even struggling to overcome her own Grinding Ice in the cold, sunless expanse of gloom.

She had never seen such melancholy eyes before, but then, when he had looked at her, she saw nothing but stony resentment.

* * *

Glorfindel led him to a secret clearing, enclosed by a ring of old, majestic trees. Pity that they would witness violence here. "You are acting like a child."

"I am acting like a child," Elrond repeated, deadpan. "Then why am I wearing the ring? Children are not fit to wear rings. Children should not wear rings until they are ready to shoulder the responsibilities of an adult. Marriage, ruling, power—children do not rule realms."

"Children do not rule realms," Glorfindel agreed, his pale blue eyes glinting angrily. "So stop acting like one, and fight as you did during the Second Alliance."

"Do you really want to see me, lost in war, bloodlust, disgust for myself…? Do you want to see my destructive side?" he asked coldly.

"You've already shown it to me," Glorfindel replied unfeelingly.

A clear ringing reverberated through the trees and through Imladris. All was silent. The birds were quiet. Elrond was not singing. The two stood in the field quietly, and Elrond's sword was a mere three centimeters from Glorfindel's neck, and would have sunk into his skin if it had not been for Glorfindel's quick reflex. Unsheathing his sword only a fraction, he pushed the revealed blade against Elrond's sword, eyes narrowing.

"Then fight me!" Elrond yelled. "Fight me as you fought the Balrog."

Glorfindel swept the blade aside and answered Elrond's challenge by pulling his own blade from its scabbard. "You insist on challenging my patience, do you not?"

Elrond smiled bitterly.

* * *

With small hesitant smiles that eventually burst into widespread grins, Elrond and Glorfindel traveled down the hallway to the Healing Wing, both bearing wounds so remarkable that one would think they were ambushed by orcs. The cut under Glorfindel's eye was swelling, and Elrond's cheek was marked deeply with a gash. Glorfindel tugged at the tourniquet around his shoulder that Elrond had made for him.

He started to retell fighting Ecthelion in Gondolin, closing his eyes and remembering the towering white city walls and the flash of silver, the ringing of metal, and a chiming, carefree laugh.

"The Elf was drunk half the time, but damn graceful as a swan murdering a fish." He opened and rolled his clear sky blue eyes with wry amusement.

Elrond laughed, and they continued down their way, the atmosphere light for once. Of course…until he broke the silence again with a simple question. "What am I, then?" Glorfindel blinked, and an alarm went off in his head, a warning that flashed before his mind seconds afore he registered it. Elrond continued self-deprecatingly, "Am I a _seagull?_" His voice was filled with scorn now. "Would that she turned into anything other than such a beautiful creature. The mere thought of her as one of them has polluted my entire approach towards the graceful race. I will never have sea-longing as long as the white gulls cry."

Before Glorfindel could respond, to convince him otherwise, they arrived at the Healing Wing. Elrond weaved in and out through the cots, brushing his hand along the closed, secretive doors, and Glorfindel followed him helplessly. Already, Elrond had descended into a foul mood, veiled behind his thin, hollow smile for anyone who looked at the pair.

The two were stopped right as Elrond prepared to enter the small room of herbs and salves. A woman grasped Elrond's wrist unsubtly and pulled him down to a kneeling position, eyes frantic and alight with wildness as she searched his eyes.

"Did you…know her?" she asked, and though blood and saliva leaked from her lips and dribbled down her chin, she ignored it. "Ade…lurui?"

Elrond froze, and Glorfindel felt his hand search the hilt of his sword again, instinctively.

Not far from where Glorfindel and Elrond stood, as Celebrían prepared to step forward and speak to the latter, she stiffened as well, remaining in her place as if she had been caught at some sort of an underhanded scheme in the dark of night. She backtracked slightly, standing behind a pillar and gripping her wrist nervously, a flush of guilt heating her cheeks as she listened to the conversation behind her.

"Yes, I did."

_Did,_ her mind echoed.

Elrond's voice carried on rather calmly, despite the seriousness of the situation. "I suppose she is dead now?"

Even if Celebrían couldn't see his face, she flinched at his tone.

"_Elrond,"_ Glorfindel hissed, low enough that Celebrían could hear it but the mortal woman undoubtedly could not.

If Elrond even did hear it, he gave no indication and knelt down next to the dying woman, contorting his facial features into a convincingly concerned and caring expression. "Tell me," he coaxed her softly, resting her cool palm against her burning skin. "Tell me what happened. Be freed of your burdening knowledge."

The tone in Elrond's voice sounded predatory to Celebrían, and she shook where she stood, but still, she remained in the same position, careful not to move or draw attention to herself.

"T-Those wicked…cruel men took her…abused her…killed her…" the woman mumbled. Her dark brown eyes went unfocused in confusion, one eye shooting off in an entirely different direction as her body trembled under the pressure of trying to recall. She drew in a shuddering breath, reliving the experience of hitting the hard floor after falling from her horse, and croaked, "Lord Elrond…she might…have loved you…?" with a question, unsure if it was her place to say so.

Elrond closed his eyes and removed his hand from the woman's face, remembering Adelurui's dying face, marked with deep gashes, an eye gouged out, neck ringed with blue and purple flowers under her pale, soft skin. He stood slowly, opening his eyes again, but before he could say anything further, the woman took in another deep, quaking gasp, and her body stilled. Elrond turned to Glorfindel wordlessly, tugging at Glorfindel's tourniquet, and they both vanished into the small room, their soft whispers trailing behind them like mistreated animals.

Celebrían couldn't count how many times she had stumbled in on Elrond during untimely situations, and this especial occasion shocked her beyond reason. She covered her mouth and walked away, all thoughts of apology forgotten as only one thought remained on her mind.

_Evade him._

* * *

At first, Elrond didn't even realize it. He didn't even know when he began to unconsciously search Celebrían in the crowd of Elves. But deep within his mind, someone told him—_he was quite sure it wasn't him_ _that informed himself—_that the Elf-lady was avoiding him. He only now began to realize it as that one day she walked into Elrond without even noticing it until she looked up. Then, she began to apologize profusely and hurried away, keeping her head lowered, gaze focused on her feet.

He had even begun to suspect that she had become disgusted with him, but it seemed that it wasn't the case when she entered his study the next day, holding her hands behind her back subtly to hide her trembling, laced fingers.

She honestly hadn't meant to make it so obvious. But what really bothered her was the internal conflict in her mind. Was she avoiding him because of the woman's death, or Elrond's immense sorrow for her death? And if it was his sorrow…then what did it mean? That he might have loved that woman? That said a lot about Celebrían as well. With horror, she came to the conclusion that it was both.

Elrond was in study, looking over orc reports when Celebrían came in. The door closed behind her loudly, the sound reverberating through the open space, and Celebrían tensed at the sound. Elrond looked up, and at the sight of her, he smiled softly.

"Greetings, Lady Celebrían," he said gently. "What brings you to my study?"

"I can't answer that question," Celebrían replied, smiling ruefully, "for I don't know the answer to it myself."

A soft laugh rang through the office, and Elrond's eyes lit up like a match. "No? Well, a reason is never needed for company. I was feeling rather lonely here all by myself…" He gestured for Celebrían to sit in the chair before him. "How have you been?"

"Confused, my lord." She took her seat before him, moving aside her skirts.

"I don't suppose you'll want to tell me why," he joked, winking at her. Whatever had made him feel so carefree around her, he didn't know. Maybe he just didn't want her to avoid him again, he thought, as he sat still under her silent, ill-hidden scrutiny. "But if you do, I'm quite fine with listening."

To this day, she still didn't understand why she would have just come out and asked him _that _question. "Did you love her?"

Elrond's eyes widened imperceptibly, but he still maintained his good-natured smile. He chuckled humorlessly. "You heard. Adelurui was killed."

Hearing the woman's name from his lips caused Celebrían to feel an odd, sinking sensation in her stomach, and she faintly wondered if it was jealousy. "Yes," she answered honestly. "I am sorry for your loss."

"No," Elrond suddenly said, and Celebrían jumped, startled at his tone of voice. It was held with a burning conviction, his gaze searing across her skin as she watched his eyes flicker across her face, searching for _something_. He stood, walked around the table, and placed his hands on the armrests of her chair, trapping her there as he leaned forward and stared deeply into her eyes. "No," he repeated softly, "I didn't love her. We knew each other for only a day." A kind smile twisted his lips upward. "If she had stayed, it would not have ended in her demise. Four months. She would have lived four months longer. I foresaw it."

Celebrían's voice quivered. "Is it true then?"

Elrond tilted his head to the side, and strands of dark hair fell before his grey eyes. His hands moved over hers, fingertips digging into the armrests' cushions as he pinned her hands in place. "What, exactly?"

He sounded condescending as he looked down at her, peering over the rim of his golden-rimmed glasses. Celebrían felt her cheeks flush, but whether at anger or embarrassment, for the life of her she couldn't tell.

"That women die within ten years of your advances," she stated.

Surprising her greatly, Elrond started to chuckle. His eyes twinkled with malicious amusement as he regarded Celebrían, and he leaned closer. Their noses touched briefly, but he pulled back only a centimeter as they made contact. "Are you afraid to die, Lady Celebrían?"

She slapped him.

He stopped laughing, astonished, and leaned back.

Celebrían abruptly felt the full consequence of her action dawn down upon her. She had slapped him. He had been infuriating, but she had _slapped him_. He was the host! How could she have…? Before she could gather all of her thoughts together, Elrond rose calmly, freeing Celebrían from the stifling, claustrophobic feeling that suffocated her. He looked down at her with the blankest expression she had ever seen—even surpassing that of her mother's—and her throat locked. Apprehension weighed down on her shoulders. She felt tears rise in her eyes, but she couldn't seem to look away from the person she had just slapped.

However, Elrond kneeled down, bowing his head, and murmured quietly, "My apologies, Lady Celebrían. I was out of line."

Relief swept through her. But his next words made her feel chilled to the bone.

"I will take my leave of your company and request for Glorfindel or Erestor, or both," his mouth twisted into a smile—_but she saw the frown it truly was_— "to accompany you throughout Imladris. Have a nice day."


	5. 5

**I am a sick excuse of a person who has not updated this story in approximately two months and three days. There is something sincerely wrong with my time-management skills. But I finished this chapter, polished it off a bit, noticed its resemblance to chapter four, and subsequently allowed Palm to meet Face. There's another confrontation in Elrond's office. I honestly did not take notice of this until I had finally finished writing chapter five. Fully. Which was…about an hour ago.**

**Of course, I do hope you enjoy this chapter. After two months, I hope this meets some of your expectations. (-doesn't want to set high standards for underachieving self)**

* * *

_Chiaroscuro - (5)_

"_The secret source of humor itself is not joy, but sorrow. There is no humor in heaven."—Mark Twain_

_main genres: insanity/drama/angst/tragedy_

* * *

With a soft sigh, Elrond walked along the hallways, mind in a soft daze of peonies and daisies. He believed that he'd forgotten almost all about something…yesterday, and that the tug in the back of his mind that bothered him was something insignificant. After all, many things had happened yesterday.

The tug of pain in his wrist—courtesy of yesterday's showdown with Glorfindel—made itself known as he pressed his palm to his face.

Between his fingers, he could see only quarters of people, fragmented limbs, torsos, faces—and he wondered what it would be like to dip them in crimson. Paint them all red. If there was light, there might as well be colors. _And what other color than red?_

He saw them all.

And beyond the hallway, just a flash of silver caught his eye, and he stiffened.

Everything—all things—passed in a blur. Elrond could hear footsteps, and his legs were surely moving, but _what was he doing? _The footsteps ringing in his ears obstructed anything else, drowning out sounds of surprise, protest—and even transcending sounds and inhibiting touch. The restraining hand on his shoulder was only a feather resting on his robes. It _was not_ gripping the cloth tightly; fingers _were not_ digging into his skin.

"Get out of my sight," he ordered the minstrel, his voice shaking. Then the fog in his mind cleared. He stared at the retreating, stunned Elf, and grasped for his hand. With apologetic, widened eyes, he mumbled, "I apologize. I do not know what came over me."

As Elrond's hand touched his, Elrond could feel the cool press of metal into his finger and jerked his hand away, turning around and rubbing his neck, head bowed. Shame flooded his features as soon as he realized the minstrel had felt the ring as well.

"Ah, I—I do not blame you, Lord Elrond," the minstrel said from behind him, feeling pity for him…for the entirely _wrong_ reasons. "You must be loaded with many stresses."

_I do not blame you, Lord Elrond. _

Elrond wondered if anyone would still say that after they were dead, but ignoring that thought, he turned around, forced a genuine smile, and nodded. "My thanks."

When he made to walk away, however, Glorfindel stopped him.

_So that was the hand on my shoulder earlier_.

A frown appeared on Glorfindel's face. It didn't suit his sunny appearance, and Elrond told him this firmly, raising his hands shakily to push the corners of his mouth upward. He didn't look amused in the slightest, collected Elrond's hands in one—_Elrond ignored the sharp pain in his wrist—_and pressed his other hand to Elrond's forehead.

"You have a rising fever, Elrond," Glorfindel enlightened him, releasing his hands.

"A fever?" Elrond echoed blankly, dubious. He felt his forehead for himself.

"It usually occurs when you are ill."

"I know that!" Elrond protested. "I am a _healer_."

Glorfindel finally smiled, shaking his head. But his eyes betrayed his exasperation. "Well, come then. I'll take you to your station and have someone else heal you."

"I am perfectly capable of—"

"Ah, but you aren't," he interjected.

"I am," Elrond insisted.

They stopped their strides in the middle of the hall, and Glorfindel crossed his arms over his chest, gazing at Elrond seriously, trying to find any traces of jest. However, Elrond's attitude was intrinsically completely devoid of humor. Glorfindel sighed. "Prove it then. Heal yourself right now. Heal every single part of you that is tainted with these poisonous thoughts."

Elrond grinned. "Now _that_ is impossible. I am incapable of doing so." And then, his mind caught on a snag. "Poisonous thoughts? I disagree."

"What else can they be called?"

Musing, Elrond tapped his finger against his chin. "Certainly not _poisonous_, though I'll allow that they are thoughts. And you haven't asked me why I cannot rid myself of them. Surely you would like to know? You were never the person to hold back your curiosity."

"My curiosity to die by fire?" Glorfindel supplied self-deprecatingly, rolling his eyes.

"No, to fall from great heights."

"I take what you mean. A fall from grace. Well, public censure isn't _extremely_ pleasant, so to say." Glorfindel glanced around him, at the passing people in the hallway who caught him staring and smiled, bowing their heads respectfully to both him and Elrond. "The people here are much more accepting."

Elrond sighed. "How much did you love Ecthelion? Idril? Tuor? Turgon?"

"Enough to die."

"Then that is surely enough. You'll never be healed."

The golden-haired Elf shrugged. "I never expected to be. I am already too old to forget what has happened to me. You, on the other hand, are like one possessing a hand with a splinter lodged beneath the skin of your palm. And when that one is successfully removed, you turn your hand over, looking at me complacently, and between your fingers, _in_ your fingers, embedded in the back of your hand, aggregating at your wrist, surrounding like a ring of thorns in your thumb, there are a million more."

"I don't magically produce those splinters by myself."

"Sometimes I wonder."

They stared at each other.

Of course. What seemed to be an amiable conversation was nothing but insults slyly directed at each other.

Elrond closed his eyes and smiled. "I am sorry that you have to remove all of those painstakingly one by one, but why not just leave the splinters there?"

"Is that what you say to assure yourself that you're not going mad?"

Laughter ran through the now-empty hallways. "Look where we are, Glorfindel. Back on the track of poisonous thoughts again? Splinters, thoughts, what are they but the same thing? One is lodged in my hand; the other is lodged in my brain."

Glorfindel snorted. "Splinters lodged in your brain, certainly—look at yourself. You shouted at a minstrel earlier just for having silver hair."

Elrond froze. "How did you know?"

"Did you forget?"

He slowly relaxed his stiff posture and smiled weakly. "I suppose I did."

"As for thoughts, I think they are lodged in your hand." Catching the glint in Elrond's eyes, Glorfindel continued unhurriedly, "Not because of the Ring, but because of your disturbing tendency to reach for a sharp object every time someone has finished discussing with you something that could possibly trigger your memories."

"Cognitive ability is only possible with the mind."

"I don't think your mind recognizes what your hand seeks to do."

"Do you take me for a murdering psychopath?"

Glorfindel tugged him along the hallway again, with a small smile playing on his lips.

"Glorfindel, answer my question, or I swear to the Valar, I'll take your sword and fling it over the balustrade."

He chuckled. "But, Elrond, with you one can never tell."

* * *

"Well, even he's declared it—you're sick," Glorfindel said as the healer walked away.

Elrond chuckled. "Yes, I am. Twisted, revolting, mad, insane. Whichever you prefer."

Glorfindel sighed deeply, his shoulders rising and falling with the action. His hair spilled over his white robes. "Do you wish to talk about it?"

"Talk about what?"

"Anything."

Suddenly, Elrond reached out—and as Glorfindel made to step back, Elrond grasped him by the front of his robes, fisting his hand at the front of Glorfindel's chest, pulling him back with a rough tug. "Fine then," he said quickly, but faltered. Then he looked up again. "Will you answer my questions?"

Glorfindel, though he felt alarmed, gripped Elrond's wrist with his fingers slackly, fingers overlapping with his. "What questions?"

"Where to start," Elrond murmured. _Why am I still alive? Why did I choose to be an Elf? Why am I the only one who won't die? Why did I leave him alone to die? _He blanched at the thought, knuckles turning white as his grip on Glorfindel's clothing tightened. _I left him to die. I left him to __die__. I could have joined him. He died in a strange land, with a strange woman and four strange children, and I wasn't even there to see him breathe his last breath. _

He felt a tug on his wrist, and the clothing came free, leaving Glorfindel's robes rather wrinkled. "You said you would talk to me about them," Glorfindel reminded him.

Elrond slowly looked up. "Why can I not die?" When Glorfindel didn't respond, appearing uncomprehending—but truthfully, just unsure how to approach the inquiry—he clarified it. "Why do I have to live?"

"Why do you want to die?"

"You're answering my questions with more questions," he accused, leaning back against the cot.

"It's the only way I'll get you off topic about killing yourself."

He snorted. "Everyone else followed the path to their own demise. Why can't I?"

"Should I really discuss these matters with you in a _healing house?"_ Glorfindel asked exasperatedly.

"Why, Glorfindel, it's the best place to discuss them."

The fact that they still continued to have civil conversation was rather remarkable. Had it been anyone else, Elrond would have shot them down immediately with his words. The chance of anyone _ever_ understanding him was slim beyond the thread of a needle.

"Don't withdraw from the conversation at hand, Elrond," said Glorfindel. "We are still 'answering' your questions."

"With questions!"

"_Why do you want to die?"_ he repeated. He grasped Elrond's shoulders and shook him. "Why is death so ideal to you that you prefer it over life?"

"Death is absolute."

"Then all those who want to live…"

"If there was a way," Elrond said calmly, "to give them my life force, I would gladly do so." He grasped Glorfindel's shoulders this time, and pushed him back, staring deep into his eyes. "Don't lie to yourself either, Glorfindel—you don't want to live forever. No one truly wants to live forever." His mouth warped into a faint, eerie smile. "They just don't want to die."

"But you're different from them. Why did you become an Elf in the first place if you detest living? Is that not what Elves do? Endure their lives until their flames exhaust their bodies?"

Elrond couldn't find a response to that. He opened his mouth, but no sound came forth but a strangled gasp. His mouth thinned; he tugged at the finger that the Ring sat upon and stared up at the ceiling. Glorfindel waited for Elrond to regain his composure. But the next thing Elrond said threw him completely off balance.

"I touched her hands."

Glorfindel paled. "How _could_ you…"

"I thought you disbelieved those rumors."

"You had no right!"

Elrond was ashen as well, tired and exhausted as he stared Glorfindel full in the eye. "I could not help it. You _know_ I have no control over—"

"She is but a girl, Elrond! With many years to live, and you…how can you even look at her after you've seen it? How can you even…"

Bleakly, he replied, "She is not like them. She is _nothing_ like them."

"Do you love her then? Is that why?"

"Foolish. I am a being who deserves no love."

"How can you be so sure she will fall in love with you?"

"Otherwise I would not have seen it."

"Galadriel will not be happy with you."

Elrond glanced away with a faint smile—_or was it a frown?_—as if he had his own private joke to enjoy at the expense of everyone else's obliviousness. "Truth be told, Glorfindel, I think she already knows."

"And how far can you see, Elrond? How far?"

Elrond's mouth twisted into a scowl, and he turned back to Glorfindel, clenching his fist tightly, the ring involuntarily constricting on his finger.

Hollowly, he answered, "I see the end."

* * *

He was insane.

There really was no other way to go about it, despite Celebrían trying to bring out Elrond's most redeeming characteristics to the forefront of her mind. She sat at the windowsill, pressing her chin into her palm as she gazed out of the glass.

The more she thought about it, the more she was frightened.

He was ruling Imladris in this condition?

"Celebrían," her mother's voice drifted to her. "If you wish to leave, consult Elrond."

Celebrían sat up straight and turned to her mother, eyes wide like a stunned doe. "I-I wasn't…" She ducked her head down, and short locks of silver swung before her eyes as she blushed. "It's not that I…_want _to leave," she said quietly. "It's just… He's very unfortunate."

Galadriel sat down across from her, folding her spidery pale hands into her lap as she stared straight into her daughter's face. "I will not judge you for your fears or favorites. If you wish to stay, we will stay," her mother counseled softly. "But if your desire is to depart, then we will depart for Lothlorien."

She nodded, biting her lip, and glanced back toward the window again.

And at the worst moment possible, Elrond crossed the courtyard with Glorfindel.

She couldn't stop herself from staring. His face was as white as clean sheets hanging on a clothesline, and the veins in his neck were prominent as he turned back to Glorfindel with some sort of a sharp, angry retort. Glorfindel stopped short, stood there, and gazed after Elrond who walked away, eyes searing onto the path his feet took before him.

"I don't think now is a good time…"

* * *

"Before I tell you my decision," Elrond said quietly, a disturbingly amused smile engraved into his lips, "I wish to know if Imladris has somehow fallen short of your standards. Is that why you ask to leave? To avoid the risk of offending me? Lady Celebrían, you could leave at any time if you wished it. I could not stop you, and if it is your wish to—" he abruptly stopped, and took in a sharp breath. Celebrían sat there in the arm chair, masking her stance to flee, helplessly frightened for and of Elrond. He continued, clearing his throat, "—if it is your wish to leave, I would not want to. So why, Lady Celebrían, do you wish to leave?"

"You disturb me," Celebrían murmured, half hoping he would not hear. "You frighten me to no end."

"Is that so?" Elrond asked pleasantly, and his smile contorted maliciously. "Then I will inform you of my verdict." His fingers twitched, and the ring seemed to glow angrily. "You may not leave Imladris."

Shocked, Celebrían remained rooted to her seat. Her mouth opened, and her lips attempted to form words, but nothing came to mind except for a great chasm, expanding with her on one side and Elrond on the other.

Elrond continued. "In fact, you are not permitted to leave until your mother decides to end your stay here. So, my fair lady," this was said with a fair tinge of sarcasm, and Celebrían felt extremely hurt—but then, strangely accepting, "will you go to your mother and ask her to leave? Or will you remain here in my realm?"

Horrified at his malevolent gaze, Celebrían covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes watering with the tears as she attempted to focus on Elrond's expression.

As if almost incredulous, Elrond inquired quietly, "Are you…actually crying?"

Celebrían did not respond to the question and wiped the tears that escaped from her eyes. "Why are you so hurtful?" she asked, her voice small. "Why do you pretend to be so cruel?"

"Pretending to be cruel…?" Elrond regarded Celebrían silently. His fingers tapped against the table in a rapid succession. Then, his mouth thinned. "Do I confuse you?"

"Immensely so," she admitted, sniffing. "You frighten me, confuse me, and fascinate me."

"Fascinate you?" he repeated amusedly. His expression rapidly changed to a more remorseful, regretful one, and he stood, tugging a handkerchief from the pocket of his robes. Cautiously, he approached Celebrían and knelt down beside her, holding the cloth out, fingers gripping it tightly. Then, he gently began to wipe her tears away as he mumbled, "I'm sorry…extremely sorry. I apologize for scaring you, making you cry, and seeming unnecessarily cruel. You may leave Imladris whenever you like. The guards would escort you beyond the Sea, if it is your will."

Surprising them both, Celebrían began to laugh through her tears and held Elrond's hand, dabbing at the places he had overlooked.

"Th-Thank you," she stuttered.

Elrond placed the handkerchief in her hand, and politely, she excused herself from the room. Growing pale, Elrond leaned against the chair, on his knees, and placed his palm over his forehead.

_What am I doing? She must not leave Imladris._

Vilya began to sear into his fingers, constricting, scorching—the pain was a white fire, sending his blood up his arm and back to his heart in an inferno of pain.

_She must not leave Imladris._

He shut his eyes tightly, nails digging into his finger as he attempted to pry Vilya off.

The damn Ring was—it was—

—the light struck and faded within—

—a conflagration—

* * *

**And that concludes chapter five of Chiaroscuro.**

**Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll be off hiding under a rock again, trying to pull my fingers together for the sixth. *bows***


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